by Unknown
‘I loved her too.’ His voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘I can’t…’ Then he stopped. She could see him tightening his resolve, pulling himself back into firmer shape.
‘And I’m glad you brought Grace.’
‘It made me late. I’m sorry.’
‘Emma would have been pleased.’
‘She was always very kind to her.’
‘Yes. I ought to go and speak to Eric. I’ll see you back at the house, won’t I?’
‘Of course.’ Lucy spoke for both of them, her voice clipped, her mouth pinched with anxiety.
Later, at the house, she saw how he stared around him, taking in Emma’s striped mugs hanging from their hooks, the old fireplace, the table he’d sat at so many times, the hob where he’d cooked fried breakfasts for Emma’s B-and-B guests, Marnie’s charcoals hanging from the walls. She noticed how he ran his finger over the top of the chair by the fire that Emma used to sit in with her book, as if he was doubting its reality. His gaze lingered on the photograph of Emma and Marnie together in the garden: Eric had taken it several summers ago and the two of them, standing arm in arm, their dark hair tied back and smiles slightly self-conscious, looked ridiculously similar.
She turned away from him abruptly. There were too many sandwiches left and the lettuce was wilting in the salad bowl. Guests were loitering and she just wanted them gone, but at the same time she dreaded the evening that lay ahead. She went outside to the garden, where Grace was sitting alone in a patch of cool sunlight, her thin legs hanging limply and her head lolling. She was crooning softly to herself.
‘You’re the only person I can talk to,’ said Marnie, sitting on the grass at her feet, smiling up into her vacant face. ‘Because you won’t understand. Or maybe you do. Maybe you understand and just can’t tell anyone. What a terrifying thought. Anyway, I don’t really know what it is that I want to say. Nothing. There’s nothing to say. Emma was good like that. She knew when not to speak. When Eric wrote to me about her death, he said she always reminded him of a boulder in a flooding stream – as if she could withstand anything. Maybe he thought that to make himself feel better about leaving her. She must have suffered so much in her life but she never complained. She didn’t even talk about it to me. Probably that was her way of surviving: to keep everything battened down. Some people say that’s a form of repression but I don’t think so. I think it’s more like being unselfish. She was determined not to let her sadness spill over me. She carried herself very carefully, as if there were feelings inside her that might ignite, explode, if they were shaken. Do you understand that? It’s the opposite of Ralph, isn’t it? He shakes everything up – he’s like a walking flare. Tell me, Grace, how is your brother? How’s Ralph? Is he OK? I don’t think so. And how do I feel about him? What do you think? Would you call it love? Don’t worry, there isn’t a right answer. Anyway, he’s with Lucy. Occasionally I wish I’d never met him – that’s a terrible thing to say, I know. Are you cold? Your hands are cold but your hands are always cold, aren’t they? We’ll go inside soon. I’m talking nonsense anyway. Ignore me. I’m very tired. I keep thinking Emma will walk out of the door carrying a tray of lemonade or something. Or I’ll see her standing in the kitchen, at the window, washing the dishes.
‘I’m happy you’re with us, Grace. It feels right. Ollie’s not here. Probably that’s a good thing. No, it’s definitely a good thing. I could make a fool of myself today. I haven’t really thought about him all the time I’ve been in Italy, but now I’m back, so is he, in my mind, anyway. So are we all. Do you reckon he thinks of me? No, of course he doesn’t. I’ll return to Italy when things are sorted here. I don’t want to stay. I suppose I’ll have to sell the house – what an unimaginable thing, not to have this house as home. I always believed I’d have it to return to – I used to imagine arriving with a clutch of children and Emma would be there to greet us. I had it all sorted in my mind. I pictured us on the rug in the garden. Three children, maybe. That would be nice. A baby with chubby legs. I’ve no idea where the father is in this quaint idyll of mine – he doesn’t seem to be anywhere at all. God, I haven’t even drunk anything, not a drop. So if this isn’t home any longer – and even if I kept it, which I can’t, it wouldn’t be home anyway – then where will be home? Enough. I’m going to go and be a proper host. Say goodbye to them all. Then, when everyone’s gone, I’ll go for a walk by the sea and say goodbye to Emma. I’m so full of tears, yet somehow I haven’t been able to cry properly. I’ve never been very good at crying. Like Emma – when did I ever see her cry? Maybe she cried alone, when no one was there to hear her. I hate to think of that. I hate to think I never comforted her.
‘I’d better go in now. You wait there – all right? – and someone will come and fetch you in a minute. Ralph and Lucy will take you back.’
All of the mourners had left and she was alone at last. Lucy had asked if Marnie wanted her to stay, rather than going with Ralph to her parents’ house, and Marnie, ruefully noting that Lucy said ‘me’ not ‘us’, thanked her but insisted she would rather be alone. And, no, she could clear up on her own; she had always rather liked clearing up mess. It was satisfying, somehow, restoring order to chaos.
So she had hurried them out of the house, pretending not to notice Ralph’s anguished look and drawing back slightly when he kissed her cheek. It was all too intense; her heart bumped painfully in her chest and her eyes hurt. She stood at the door, watching them as they pushed Grace up the bumpy track towards the main road where Lucy had left her car. At the corner, Ralph stopped and turned, but she gave him a determinedly cheery wave. Then they disappeared from sight, and for a while Marnie remained, staring at the place they had been.
Did she know that he would come back? For the remainder of the day, as she washed plates and glasses, wrapped up sandwiches and put them in the small freezer that she would have to empty and defrost, swept floors and wiped surfaces, she was heavy with a sense of foreboding and anticipation. She went out for her walk along the sea-front, but every so often she would cast a look back towards the house, as if she might see a figure there, or would strain her eyes into the twilight distance, thinking that perhaps Ralph would suddenly appear, running towards her as he used to with his gangling, lopsided gait, a look of urgency on his face and the wind knotting his wild hair.
He did not come until it was quite dark outside and the owl was shrieking from the beech tree. Marnie had had a bath and was in Emma’s ancient dressing-gown; it hadn’t been washed and smelt of soap and deodorant and, very faintly, of Emma’s sweat. Her hair was wet and twisted on top of her head. Fatigue throbbed behind her eyes, but she was buzzing with a restless energy.
At the frantic hammering on the door, she had no doubt that it was Ralph and, sure enough, when she opened it, he was standing there, still dressed in his dark suit and white shirt. Yet she tried for a note of surprise. ‘Ralph! Is everything all right?’
‘Marnie, Marnie. Oh, thank God. Oh, Marnie. Please.’ She felt his fingers on the hem of her sleeve, then clutching at her hand. He collapsed over the threshold and half fell, then was kneeling on the floor, burying his face in the folds of the dressing-gown.
‘What?’ But she let him embrace her, running her hands through the tangle of his hair, murmuring words of comfort, finally crouching beside him and holding his thin body, feeling his breath hot against her neck, letting his arms pull her fiercely against him, letting his thumb wipe the tears from her cheek. She hadn’t even known she was crying until then.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he was gabbling. ‘So sorry about Emma. Can’t believe. When I heard. You poor thing. You poor darling. I just want to help you. I always promised you’d never be alone. You’ll never be alone, my lovely love.’
‘Ralph, get up now, seriously.’
‘Oh, Marnie. I’ve come to be with you.’
‘Please, don’t,’ she said, half sobbing and at the same time almost laughing at his hysterical intensity. ‘This isn’t right. Listen, Ra
lph. If you love me, don’t.’
‘If I love you. If I love you. Ah!’
‘Here, come and sit down.’
She put her hand in his and tugged. He scrambled to his feet, swaying, gazing at her.
‘I’ve left,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t. It was wrong. I was wrong. I always knew.’
‘What? What are you saying?’
‘I’ve left.’
‘Left Lucy?’
‘This was my home, the only place. Where you are. I can’t – I just can’t.’
‘Oh, no. No, Ralph.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. Nothing’s your fault. It’s mine.’
‘Look, sit down.’ She steered him to Emma’s old chair by the hearth and he subsided into it, keeping a grip on her hand, holding her beside him. ‘What have you done?’
‘I’ve left,’ he repeated, then lifted her hand to his face, pressing it against his feverish cheek and giving a small, blissful groan.
‘No. This is – it’s dreadful. It’s all wrong. You must see. You’re upset because of Emma. You’re not seeing things clearly.’
He lifted his head. ‘I’m seeing things very clearly at last. I was trying to persuade myself I could be happy but it was a sham. I couldn’t do it. I love her, but not like that – not the way she loves me, not the way I love you. Don’t look at me like that, as if I’m mad or monstrous. I don’t expect anything.’
‘But Lucy,’ said Marnie. She could see her friend’s small, stubborn face, her wry twist of a smile. ‘What about Lucy?’
‘Lucy’s better without me,’ said Ralph, dreamily. All of a sudden, the urgency seemed to have run out of him and he was left calm and passive, smiling up at Marnie. ‘She doesn’t know that yet, but she will. I’m no good. Not for anyone. I’m a wrecker.’
‘Oh, don’t say stupid things like that!’ Marnie snatched her hand out of his grip and paced the room. ‘Have you told her?’
‘Told her?’
‘Yes – told her, for God’s sake.’
‘I left a letter.’
‘I see.’
‘You think I don’t know the damage I’ve done? But I do. I do. I know. Of course I know. Sometimes I think I’ll go mad with knowing, Marnie.’
‘She trusted me,’ said Marnie, drearily.
‘You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not you, it’s me.’
She turned to face him. ‘You have to go now.’
‘Can’t I stay in my old room, just for what’s left of the night? I’ll leave first thing in the morning.’
‘No!’ said Marnie, wildly. ‘That’s no good at all. Don’t you see? You can’t run from her to me. You can’t be here – it’s the one place in the whole world you shouldn’t be right now. She’s my friend, my oldest and most loyal friend – it’d be like a kind of treachery.’
‘Treachery? I’m your friend too.’
‘You’re my – Oh, shit, Ralph. I can’t do this. I’ve just lost Emma. You shouldn’t be making me go through all this as well.’
‘You’re right,’ he said, springing to his feet. ‘You’re right. Of course. Forgive me, Marnie. I wanted to help you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He lifted his hands in front of him, palms upwards, as if he was offering her something. ‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Anything.’
‘Go,’ said Marnie.
‘Go? That’s what you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now?’
She steeled herself, clenching her fists and digging her nails into her palms. ‘Yes, Ralph. Now.’
For a moment, he looked absolutely lost – as lost as he had seemed on that cold night many years ago when she had opened the door and found him standing there, like an abandoned mongrel.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m going. If you ever need me – well, you just –’
‘I know.’ She tried to smile at him. ‘Just call.’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodbye.’
He took a step forward and so did she. They met in the middle of the room and kissed, hard and mouth to mouth, like two drowning people saving each other. And then he turned and went out of the door, striding into the night. She thought she heard a single howl of pain.
‘And that,’ said Marnie to Ralph’s motionless form, ‘was the very last time I saw you. Until now. You simply disappeared out of my life. Later, I tried to track you down, but I didn’t try hard enough. I was too scared of what I would find.’ She stood up, stretching. ‘I’m going to make a really strong pot of coffee now,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes. You just rest.’
Suddenly Ralph’s eyes snapped open, like those of a porcelain doll that has been lifted upright. He stared at her fixedly.
‘Ralph?’ she whispered. ‘Ralph, it’s OK. Here I am.’
‘Emma?’
‘No, it’s –’
‘Emma,’ he repeated, his face softening and his eyes half closing. ‘You’ve come.’
It’s you at last. You’ve been away, but now you’re back. I knew you would be. But I can’t see your face properly. Everything’s going dark. Shadows falling and night coming across the fields.
‘He doesn’t recognize me. I think he thinks I’m Emma,’ said Marnie to Oliver, tears standing in her eyes.
Oliver laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘If he does, that’s OK, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You look like her.’
‘So people say.’
Grace? Don’t go. I wanted to say – I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you. You were always so kind. Not a nasty bone in your poor body. I’ve missed you since you’ve been gone.
‘What’s he saying? I think he’s trying to speak but I can’t make it out.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s a dream.’
‘No. Look, I’m sure he’s trying to say something.’
Everyone’s here. My mother; I recognize her, she has a disappointed face. No words, though. Even David, flickering into sight for a moment. So young, not a monster, just a boy hiding his shames and fears. I never knew. I never knew. I never knew. I can see faces, like shifting shapes in a fog. Everything changes into something else. Nothing holds its shape. Melting and re-forming, fading, returning and dissolving away. You are you and you’re someone else as well. No boundaries, no borders. Everything giving way, walls falling in and ground oozing away under my feet. Ollie, mate? Ollie, is that you? I can’t see.
Thoughts dissipate to smoke in my brain, dirty grey wisps that float away and I can’t stop them and I can’t hold on to them. Slow drift. I want to say – I want to say – my dear friends – can you still hear me or are my words silent now and are my eyes closing and if you touch me will I feel you and am I here still, am I here or am I going, and please, please…
Chapter Twenty-four
‘Come on,’ said Oliver, gently, taking her hand and leading her towards the kitchen area. ‘I’ll get you that coffee and then we can have something to eat.’
‘Eat?’ Marnie whispered.
‘We’ve got to eat. I’ll heat up the remains of that soup and there’s the remains of the loaf of bread Dot brought.’
‘You look exhausted.’
‘You too. But it’s OK.’
‘Is it?’
‘Of course. He’s quite peaceful. He’s just slipping away.’
‘I know.’
‘I couldn’t have gone through this without you, Marnie.’
‘Really?’
He pushed her hair behind her ears and kissed her forehead, drawing her close to him so that for a moment she stood in the solid warmth of his embrace. ‘Really.’
‘I’m glad I’m here.’
Where had he gone after he’d left her that night? Probably he’d walked through the night, empty-handed and sore-hearted. She would never know. And where had he gone for all those years? She only had a patchwork impression of his life from then, gathered from Oliver over the past days. She knew that he’d left Cambridge abruptly, in t
he middle of the term, and never gone back. His book – which had made him a minor celebrity, a maverick young man who stammered endearingly on TV shows or spoke in sudden eloquent bursts, becoming an unlikely and dangerous heart-throb for intense teenagers in search of life’s meaning – slowly slipped down and then off the charts. Off the radar. His family didn’t know where he’d gone, nor had they ever tried to find out – by then his father, violently alcoholic and violently unhappy, had left his mother, and Grace was in a home, so the very word ‘family’ had lost its notional significance. Oliver had searched for Ralph but failed to track him down; he had had to wait for Ralph to make contact with him, a year or so later. So she only knew he had become a kind of perpetual wanderer – from country to country, job to job, home to home.
And now there were things she would never find out. Had he found happiness? Peace? Love? Had his life been a disappointment to him? She could almost hear his answer, the one he had given her in different forms throughout their teenage years: that happiness was not what was important. Life was a journey, he used to say. It was about being open to experience, about passion and discovery. She could see his eyes glinting at her, his thin hands waving exuberantly in the air. It was about holding on to what you believe, following your heart, not letting the walls close in on you, not becoming a person you don’t like. But Marnie had never entirely believed him. She knew how much he longed for roots, love, a home. When he had sat at their table and let her and Emma tend him, he was a soul in bliss. He was the neediest, hungriest, loneliest creature she had ever encountered.
Marnie had not searched for him, though much later she had looked him up on the Internet, and even tried ringing his old number, which no longer existed. She had got as far as leafing through telephone directories, to see if there was a Tinsley, R., but that was all – she told herself there was no point. The past had gone.
